by Laurel Dewey
“You keep playing where you shouldn’t be playing
And you keep thinking that you’ll never get burnt (Hah!) . . .”
“What the fuck are you waiting for, you little cunt!” Dale yells over the music. “Go on. Pull the fucking trigger! I dare you.” Jane slides her finger onto the trigger. The workshop rotates around her. “You don’t have the guts,” Dale screams.
Jane can hardly see out of her right eye which is now completely flooded with blood. She blinks hard in a wasted attempt to clear it. “You don’t . . . know me . . . very well,” she manages to get out.
“I know you better than anyone. You think you’re tough, but you’re nothing! You think you know how to win, but you’ll always fail.”
“I’m going to kill you now,” Jane utters, with no emotion.
“Is that so? You’ll go to prison.”
“I’ll go to ‘juvie.’. . . I’ll fake insanity . . . I know the ropes. . . I’ll be out. . . when I’m 18 and you’ll still be dead.” Jane feels the sweat of her finger against the steel trigger and starts to put pressure on it.
“What about Mike!” Dale yells. “When you’re stuck in juvie, who’s gonna watch out for him and protect him?” Jane stands firm, still pointing the barrel at Dale’s head but saying nothing. “You don’t have an answer for that, do you?!” Dale screams. “Stupid bitch didn’t think about that! You know where the little fuck’s gonna end up? . . . A foster home! And the guy who runs it will butt fuck him every night because he knows Mike won’t fight back! You want that on your head the rest of your life? If you do, you dumb bitch, then shoot me! Shoot me!”
Jane can hardly see through the blood. The more she tries to think rationally, the cloudier her perception gets. Dale’s face waves in and out of focus as the gun becomes heavier. And through it all, the song plays against the moment.
“These boots are made for walkin’, and that’s just what they’ll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.”
Jane strains to focus. She can see that Dale is slowly moving toward her. As the blood clears from her eye, she can clearly make out that he is smiling.
With a sudden jolt of movement, Dale slaps her arms off to the side. Jane pulls back on the trigger and blows a hole in the ceiling. Dale grabs the revolver from Jane’s weak hands and throws it on the ground behind him. It falls against the rectangular mirror that leans against the wall, forging a deep crack in the glass. Jane stumbles backward. With his right hand, Dale grabs her by the throat and pulls her upright. She gasps for breath as she attempts to pull his hand away. “You are nothing! You understand me?” he screams. “You understand me?”
Jane manages to pull several of his fingers away from her throat. She looks Dale straight in the eye. “Fuck you!”
Then, another power suddenly enters Dale’s body—a power so destructive that it will stop at nothing until it shatters its target. Dale balls his fist and nails Jane hard against her cheek, sending her to her knees. Before she knows what hit her, she feels Dale’s boot kick her hard in the stomach. She falls to the side, trying to protect her body. But no matter how much she tries to take cover, Dale is relentless. He kicks her hard repeatedly in the groin.
The pain crescendos and then . . . nothing.
Jane opens her eyes and sees her reflection in the cracked mirror. She observes her father’s boot contacting with her body but feels nothing. There is no sound. There is no pain. There is no grief. There is no emotion. There is a cocoon of emptiness and she sits in its void. She watches as a trail of blood travels from the cut on her head and into the corner of her mouth. That’s the last thing she remembers before she loses consciousness.
Hours pass before Jane wakes up on the dirt floor. She is alone. The snow outside has turned to pellets of hail that beat a drowning rhythm on the workshop roof. At first, she wonders if she is dead and that Hell looks just like her former existence. She starts to move but feels a bolt of pain in her tailbone that works its way down both legs. Jane looks in the mirror and sees the dried cakes of blood smeared with dirt crisscrossing her face. She remains on the floor for another hour, considering her next move. About five feet away from her, she spies a gallon jug of whiskey hidden underneath a chair. She drags the bottle closer and pops the cork. Jane looks around for a clean cloth but finds nothing. She tips the jug and pours a handful of whiskey into her palm. Jane then holds her palm against the deep gash on her head. A low, guttural moan emits from her throat but she continues to bathe the wound in the whiskey.
Jane uses what is left in her palm to wash away part of the blood on her face. She pours another handful into her palm and rinses off the thick crusts of dried blood that settled in the crease of her lips. A few drops make their way into her mouth and she winces at the bitter taste. She continues to cover her face in whiskey. Each time, more of the liquid makes its way onto her tongue. She shakes off the flavor, but then begins to notice a comforting warmth enveloping her injured body. Jane takes a small sip from the jug and then another, until she swallows several ounces.
She starts to free-float. The pain in her tailbone fades. A penetrating heat surrounds her body. For the first time in her short life, she feels safe and protected.
Jane drinks another few ounces of whiskey before shoving the cork back into the bottle and sliding it under the chair. Using the chair as support, she pulls herself up to her knees. Jane looks down and catches a glimpse of dark, dried blood in the crotch of her jeans. She unzips her jeans and pulls them down to reveal her underwear soaked completely through with bright blood. She stares at her body but cannot connect with any emotion. There is blood and yet there is no feeling attached to it. She zips up her jeans and drags herself to her feet. Jane makes her way carefully outside the workshop, closing the door behind her and enters the house. The morning sun is cresting in the distance, allowing slivers of light to illuminate the landscape.
Jane makes her way through the kitchen and enters the living room. Her father is sound asleep in his barcalounger, a bottle of whiskey precariously propped up in his hand. Carefully, Jane walks around the chair and starts up the stairs toward her bedroom. The stairwell is dark and full of early morning shadows. The top step creaks and a door slowly opens. Jane looks over to see her brother peering from around his bedroom door.
“Janie?” Mike asks quietly.
“It’s okay, Mike,” Jane whispers. “Go back to bed.” Mike closes his door and Jane softly pushes open her door. She walks inside, but before closing it, she peers outside into the hallway one last time. The stillness of the house blends with the long shadows. It draws her into its grasp. Jane records the memory before closing the door and going to bed.
Jane sat on the dirt floor of the workshop, staring straight ahead. She didn’t jolt out of the memory this time. It was more like sliding out of it, while making sure to leave the door open so she could return to the nightmare.
She finished off her Corona and threw the bottle against the mirror. Jane stood up and grabbed a nearby cardboard box. She dumped every gun from her father’s collection into the box, including the ones he had taken apart to rebuild. Wedging the box of guns under her arm, she snapped the lid down on the tool chest and walked out.
On her way home, Jane finished the sixth bottle of Corona. It was pitch dark by the time she pulled up in front of her house. She had driven slowly on the way home due to the buzz she felt from the beer. Jane grabbed the box of guns and the toolbox and got out of the car, stumbling up the curb toward the house.
The sound of a car door opening and closing, along with footsteps approaching her, caught Jane off guard. She dropped the toolbox and box of guns and spun around. “Goddamnit, Chris!” she yelled. “I’m not in the fuckin’ mood!”
Sergeant Weyler emerged out of the shadows. Jane took a step back and tripped over a sprinkler head on her lawn. She tried to stay upright but gravity pulled her down to the grass.
“Well, Detective,” Weyler said matter
-of-factly. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
Chapter 9
Jane tried to get up from the lawn where she fell, but her head spun like a top.
Sergeant Weyler peered down at Jane’s flaccid body. “Detective Perry, exactly how much have you had to drink tonight?”
Jane looked up at Weyler. She could feel her blood pressure rising and knew that her ability to censor her mouth would be difficult. “Gee, Dad, I’m not sure! Why don’t you look inside the car and count the goddamn bottles for yourself!”
“My God, Jane! How in the hell can you drive in this condition?”
“Oh, fuck, boss. You should give me an award. Most people in my condition would have taken out at least five cars on the way here.”
“Get up!”
“No, I think I’ll just sleep here tonight.” Jane rested her head on the moist grass.
“Give me your hand!” Weyler commanded, holding out his hand. “Get up!”
Jane reluctantly held out her hand to Weyler, who quickly pulled her to her feet. “What in the hell are you doing here?” Jane said, irritated.
“I’m worried about you.” Weyler steadied Jane’s shoulder with his hand. Jane let out a loud cackle. “I’m standing here looking at somebody who is drowning and hasn’t got the sense to cry out for help!”
“Oh, Christ—”
Weyler grabbed Jane’s shoulders. “Is this the way you want it to end?” Weyler’s voice was stern and abrupt.
“My career or my life?” Jane yelled in a slurred tongue.
“Both!”
“Well, let’s see. My career is pretty much fucked. As for my life, well, I died a long time ago. It’s just that nobody noticed.” She felt herself slipping into herself. “At least I think I died . . .” Jane’s voice trailed off. “I have to keep checking, you see?” Jane looked Weyler in the eye. “Sometimes, boss, we have to keep hurting ourselves just to make sure we’re still alive.”
“You’re very much alive, Jane and you still have a lot to offer.”
Jane pulled away from Weyler’s grasp and stumbled backward. “Look at me! I’m a fucking drunk! I’m nothing! And I don’t care! You know what would make me happy? To wake up truly dead! I want the pieces that are left of me to finally die!” Jane slumped down on her front step. “I’m gonna regret this conversation in the morning, but it’s the God’s truth. Everything I touch ends up destroyed. All the blood . . . and the bodies. We’re supposed to act like we don’t care. Like they’re all just collateral damage. But we’re kidding ourselves.” Jane looked off to the side. “Then again, there’s always going to be that one son-of-a-bitch who really doesn’t feel anything. You know, boss, there’s a thin line between the mind of a cop and the mind of a criminal. Do you have any idea how often they are one in the same? And how they can hide it so well?”
Weyler stared at Jane. “So? . . . How is your father?”
Jane turned to Weyler in shock. “What?”
Weyler moved closer to Jane. “I have no idea what happened to you. But I have met your father on brief occasions. Just because the rest of the crew puts him up on a pedestal doesn’t mean that I do. I didn’t get to the position I’m in because I kissed someone’s ass. I got here because I know things about people. Just like you do. I can look into someone’s eyes and paint a portrait of who they really are. When I looked into your father’s eyes, it was a very dark portrait. I cannot imagine what you went through growing up. But then I look into your eyes and I don’t see the shadow of your father anywhere. You’re not your father, Jane. Deep down, I think you’re afraid that you are.” Weyler leaned down toward Jane. “You think you’re weak, but you’re one of the strongest people I know. The fact that you survived all that hell and can still function is a testament to who you are. I’ve told you that I think you’re one of the most intelligent people I’ve ever known and I mean it. You’ve got a kind of sixth sense that defies explanation. When you combine that with your inner strength, you’re a very powerful person. Unfortunately, the booze prevents you from seeing that.” Weyler stood straight up. “I’ll tell you one thing, Jane. As long as I’m in charge, I will not let you destroy yourself. You’re far too valuable to me.”
Jane sat stunned. There was a long stretch of silence between them. For a brief moment, she felt as if should could trust him. “Boss . . .” Jane struggled with revealing herself, “I’ve . . . ah . . . had some weird shit happening lately . . .”
“What is it?” Weyler asked compassionately.
Jane traced the grass with her eyes, realizing that to divulge the splintered images and odd notations with drawings of wolf faces would be career suicide. She shook her head. “Nothing . . .” There was a moment of silence.
“Can you pull yourself together by 9 a.m.?”
“Why?” Jane quietly asked.
“I want to take you to the Lawrence crime scene. I’d like to get your impressions.”
“It’s Chris’ case and I thought I was suspended.”
“Technically, yes.”
Jane looked up at Weyler. “What does that mean?”
“It means that I’m in charge. And I say that I’m going to pick you up at 9 a.m.” Jane nodded. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Weyler said, turning to his car, “Emily Lawrence asked about you. She wanted to know if your injured hand felt better.” Weyler got into his car and drove down Milwaukee.
Nine o’clock came quickly. Jane only woke twice during the night. Both times, it was the result of her recurring nightmare of the Stover murder.
The nightmare always followed the same pattern. She and Chris are sitting in the unmarked sedan across the street from the Stover’s house. Stover and his family have just left the location in their SUV to get ice cream, flanked by two police cars. All is still and very dark around them. Jane, sitting in the passenger seat, is trying to get the lid off her thermos of coffee. She is wondering how she is going to tell Chris that she wants to end their relationship.
Chris is edgy and irritated as he calls one of the flank vehicles on his cell phone. “Yeah, it’s me. I can’t believe Stover was so stupid! He drives off with his family for ice cream so he can get thirty minutes in the outside world! Thirty fucking minutes! It looks all clear from here but hurry up!”
In the dream, Jane thinks to herself how arrogant and self-important Chris sounds on the phone. Like he’s ordering people around that he has no authority over. Chris enthusiastically engages Jane in conversation about himself. He drones on about how he’s getting a plasma TV along with mega-sized speakers. He offers to help her get the lid off the thermos and they concentrate on that for several minutes.
The dream accelerates in time and Jane sees three sets of headlights in her passenger mirror coming down the street from behind their parked location. Stover’s SUV is sandwiched between the two police vehicles. Jane turns toward the oncoming cars. This is where it all slows down in her dream. The Stovers’ SUV creeps up the street and stops briefly in front of Jane and Chris’ sedan. Amy Stover is seated in the backseat, behind her father who is driving. Amy presses her face against the car window and makes eye contact with Jane. She waves toward Jane and smiles warmly as Stover pulls the SUV into the driveway.
There is complete silence until the explosion cracks into the night air and the car goes up in flames. Jane charges out of the sedan toward the SUV. Chris chases after her. Jane stands several feet from the burning car and comes face-to-face with Amy. Her palms are pressed against the window as she screams in terror. Chris tries to hold Jane back but she breaks free of his grip and tries to open the door. The handle is red-hot. She bangs on the window with her fist. The whole time, Amy Stover is wailing words that cannot be heard above the roar of the fire.
Jane punches the window with her fist, ignoring the fact that the skin on her knuckles and the side of her hand is peeling off due to the intense heat. Another series of explosions ricochet through the car, sending Chris and Jane backward onto the lawn. Jane looks up and sees Amy looking do
wn at her. It takes a full minute for the life to completely drain from her eyes.
And that’s when Jane always wakes up.
Weyler rang the doorbell at the stroke of nine. There he stood on Jane’s front porch, dressed in another one of his dashing, conservative suits from Nordstrom. His trademark narrow tie was pinned discreetly with a gold-plated clip he got as a perk from Denver PBS after contributing ten dollars during one of their many pledge drives. “Good morning, Detective,” Weyler said.
“Morning, Sergeant,” Jane said, walking outside, leather satchel in hand and locking her front door.
“How are you feeling this morning?” Weyler carefully eyed Jane.
Jane, feeling his intrusive stare, focused on the door lock. “Right as rain, boss.” She spied the box of guns and toolbox from her father’s workshop on the front porch. “Could you put those in your trunk and take them to DH? Apparently the guys down there want to buy them from my father.”
Weyler collected both boxes and put them in his immaculate trunk. His black Ford Taurus was spotless. The wax job was so slick, Jane could see her reflection in the door twenty-five feet away. Weyler slid into the driver’s seat and turned to Jane. “You like Dinah Washington?”
“Sure,” she responded.
Weyler slipped a CD of Dinah Washington’s Greatest Hits into his car player. Her silk voice softly filled the car with “What A Difference A Day Makes.”
“I got this CD as part of a package deal from PBS during their last pledge drive. Five classic jazz CDs for a two hundred and fifty dollar donation to the station.”
“Gee, that’s fifty bucks a CD, boss. You sure know how to shop.”
